willowdalefandomcom-20200214-history
User blog:KateStrange/Friend to Violence (BoW Reflection Part 1)
Samhain eve. The army marches, the guards take to the Wall. Alyenna examines the Ballista she will direct. She must be turning it over, trying to translate the arc of the arrow to the giant bolts with which she has been presented. I grip Foluchan's Branch and think briefly of the Arch-Druid in Ravenswood. If three of the Necromancer's servants ride to Willowdale with the Hobgoblins, he cannot bring his full force upon the Ravenswood. Perhaps we will both triumph in our battles. It is a small hope, but I am encouraged by the success of our raid on the siege engines the day before, and by Alejandra's assurances that siege warfare lends a huge advantage to the defender. The first hobgoblin scouts reach the Wall, and I think no more of Ravenswood. We all must deal with what is in front of us. They send the Skull-Takers and the Barking Wilders first. The Firewalkers meet them, supported by Wavlyn's magical flames, and I am glad that our goblin allies have met a familiar enemy on this field. The first line of Hobgoblins find their advance slowed by a wave of overgrowth, the long grasses of the Golden Fields called to defend their human tenders. It buys us just enough time to pull the surviving Firewalkers over the wall. Then the battle begins in earnest. A spot of blood enters the air, and then a second. For a little while, I can almost count the casualties by the small puff of gore released when an arrow finds flesh. Then the air becomes saturated. I am surrounded, blinded, the smell overwhelming. The Praetor arrives. Though he seems briefly distracted by Ruthea's war-dance, he pays little attention to our other attacks until Alyenna manages to crack his shield with a well-guided bolt. Then he vanishes, leaving his army to advance. I turn from the front battlements again and again to heal those I can, to stabilize the dying until they can be carried to the hospital. The motions become mechanical. There are too many to tend. All I can do is press a wad of fabric into a wound and whisper a prayer to slow the blood. Then I turn again to the Wall, releasing the power of my wands to further entangle the hobgoblins in a patch of weeds or to call a rain of stone over the hordes. The fight continues for hours. We had planned for this, anticipated a long battle, but I don't think I understood what that meant. Pathfinders duck behind cover, sprouting crossbow bolts and battered by rubble from the bombardment. I check to see that they are stable and move on. Stones seem to glance off my body, and bolts which find their way past my armour skid on bone, missing my vitals. I wonder when I became such a friend to violence, that it feels a need to spare me. Between waves Alejandra gathers us together for further healing, and we are renewed by her prayers and her husband's. The magic closes my wounds, but the blood still stains my druid's robes. The First comes for parley, which is ridiculous, but for some reason half the Pathfinders decide to walk onto the field. When the First claims that the Necromancer will leave Willowdale if the Pathfinders surrender, my mind starts racing. I'd rather face the entire army alone than fall under the Necromancer's power, but we have gotten the better of his servants before. Perhaps, with a little trickery.... Then Rain announces, “If the hobgoblins will not leave, the city will still fall.” I come to my senses. When the siege towers come, I prepare to twist their wooden frames beyond repair. But Kat has already flown out with the wand and stopped them all in their tracks. All but one, which Valconey destroys with a rather large Fireball. I make up my mind to tease him about it if we both survive the night. Rain, Gorgoroth, and the barbarian Halstein somehow find themselves on the other side of the wall. They carve through dozens of the enemy before hauling themselves back up, battered and half-dead, but still conscious. Several hobgoblins throw up ladders within my reach. The Branch makes short work of those who make the top. Still the wounded are carried off the wall, while fresher fighters take their place. There is a brief lull, and Alejandra calls us again. My wounds close, but the blood remains, a rusty coat over grey robes. How can a person bleed so much and still stand? The last wave approaches. The Praetor must die. We file over the field to meet him. I pour a weakening cold through his armour, a useful spell I had saved for him alone, then quickly realize there is little else I can do against this enemy. I hesitate, torn between this fight and the place where Wavlyn and Ru engage the First upon the wall. Suddenly, a fierce burst of ice tears through us, a present from the First. Rain falls in front of me. The orcish fire in my veins flares, fighting this killing cold, and as my vision clouds I reach for my spirit bag. “Life!” I grunt, and feel it wash through me and my allies. By the time I regain my balance, the Praetor collapses in Alejandra's grip, and the First falls to the combined magic of Wavlyn and Dr. Haiduc. I realize that the year's first snow is falling. A crowd has gathered on the Wall. I peer up, make out Martha and Valconey in the morning light. “Can we get a ladder down here?” Category:Blog posts Category:Reflection